Dear Impostor

by Nicole Byrd

  His only response to her pinch was a tensing of his biceps–were all actors this well-formed?–and a slight narrowing of those incredibly beautiful eyes. Standing this close to him, Psyche was aware of a masculine smell of soap and fine scent and just the hint of street odors, as if he had been lounging too long in a back alley. That did seem more like some little-known treader of the boards. She told herself to relax; her assembled family were watching them both with intent, curious eyes.

  She heard someone clear his throat. Psyche turned, the Marquis following her example, and they faced two men who glowered at them with almost identical expressions.

  "This is my uncle Wilfred, my lord," she said quickly. "My kind guardian, who has looked out so zealously for my interests since the death of my parents." If the irony in her tone was apparent, no one seemed to take notice. "And this, of course, is his son and my cousin, Percy."

  Neither man extended his hand, so her fake fiancé bowed slightly.

  Both of the men who faced them were shorter than the actor on her arm, both barely tall enough to meet Psyche herself at eye level. Uncle Wilfred was gray around the temples, and his balding pate was already reflected in the pattern of his son's thinning hair. Both men, despite their well-cut jackets, revealed paunches that spoke of hearty appetites and sedentary living. And both round faces wore expressions of strong dislike. "Never heard of this Tarrington title," her uncle said rudely. "Seems a curious thing, eh?"

  "Indeed, our family is old, but sadly undistinguished," the actor agreed.

  Psyche heard a titter of laughter from behind her, quickly suppressed.

  Her guardian was just beginning. "And why should this family find you suitable for our beloved niece?" Uncle Wilfred demanded, his tone as rigid as the set of his shoulders.

  "Because I will cherish her, make her madly happy, and sire many beautiful children," the Marquis suggested merrily, as if answering a riddle.

  A wave of scarlet mottled Percy's plump cheeks, and his father frowned. "Don't be impertinent! We have long had other plans for our dear Psyche. In fact, Percy here–"

  "Who has always been as dear as a brother to me," Psyche injected smoothly, knowing what was coming, "and has, I'm sure, only good wishes for my happiness."

  "W-well, yes," Percy sputtered. "But, dash it, you know that I–that I–I'm not your bloody brother, Psyche."

  "Please conduct yourself like a gentleman, Percy," a gray-haired lady standing nearby snapped, staring hard at the offender. "We have no need for such language when ladies are present."

  "No, Aunt Mavis." Percy pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his perspiring brow. "Of course not, beg your pardon, of course, of course. But Psyche and I–we were always–Psyche, you know–dash it–"

  She knew, all too well, and she didn't wish to hear his oft-rehearsed professions of love. She turned the man on her arm firmly toward the rest of the waiting family.

  "This is my cousin Matilda," she told him, "and my aunt Mavis."

  The actor bowed to both ladies–heavens, but he was graceful. She wondered how he would dance, how it would be to waltz within his arms, and then pulled her thoughts sharply back. If all went well, she would never see him again after this night. He was here for a purpose, a singular purpose, and it had nothing to do with dancing.

  He was saying something polite to her relatives; Psyche tried to pay attention.

  "No wonder that Psyche is so well-endowed with elegance and beauty," the man said. "I can see that her whole family is similarly pleasing."

  Psyche stared at him, and cousin Matilda looked uncertain, as if not certain if he were making covert fun. Matilda was plump and round as a fatted partridge, her cheeks too ruddy for conventional beauty, and her neck too short. And Mavis, staring at him in suspicion, was as thin and gaunt as an old turkey which had long outlived its appointment with the chopping block.

  "You have lovely eyes, Cousin Matilda," the man continued, "as smooth and deep as a mountain lake."

  Goodness, so she did; why had Psyche never noticed before? Matilda's eyes were the shimmering green-brown color of–of still, deep water, just as the actor had said. Psyche watched as Matilda flushed even redder with pleasure, and Mavis nodded in stiff approval.

  "Thank you," Matilda muttered. "You're too kind." Matilda's mother, Mavis, allowed a rare smile to lift her lips and lighten her usual dour expression.

  "Only observant," the man said, his smile relaxed.

  If she didn't hurry him on, Matilda would be ready to marry him herself, Psyche thought wryly. Nonetheless, she glanced at the actor with more respect as she guided him toward the next group of relatives.

  "That was generous of you," she said beneath her breath. "Matilda is not accustomed to compliments, but she's a very sweet soul."

  "Every woman is beautiful," the man on her arm murmured back. "If one only knows where to look."

  Was he gazing again at the curves beneath her gown? For some reason, his glances did not hold the same leering lust as Percy's covert appraisals always did, and she did not feel the same disgust. From this man, a woman sensed only genuine appreciation, and–

  Psyche tried to pull her thoughts together. And that was the most dangerous flattery of all, she told herself.

  The fraudulent Marquis shared polite greetings with the other family members assembled for this betrothal party, and Psyche could sense a gradual change in the atmosphere as the women responded to his charm, and the men found their stares firmly met.

  At the end of the room, one white-haired woman sat stiffly in a large chair which almost gave the illusion of a throne–and knowing Great-Aunt Sophie, her placement was quite deliberate.

  "Whatever you do, don't disagree with her!" Psyche whispered beneath her breath as she steered him toward the final and, aside from Uncle Wilfred, perhaps most formidable member of the family. "Be respectful. Say as little as you can, just as I wrote you."

  "This is my great-aunt Sophie, whom I've told you so much about," she said, raising her voice again to a conversational level.

  "So you're the man who has swept my prim niece off her feet." The older woman peered at him through her lorgnette. "Never thought it would happen. You've got a pretty face, but then, how much is that worth in the long run? Must be more to you than that."

  "Of course," he answered, taking the hand she offered, bringing it to his lips as he bowed over her hand with the ease and grace of long practice. "Why else would my dearest Psyche agree to my proposal?"

  "You're not after her fortune, then?" Aunt Sophie snapped, retrieving her hand from his grip.

  "A sensible man is never averse to a fortune," he said, smiling.

  This time Psyche bit her lip and waited for her aunt to respond with indignation and outrage. Instead, the older woman gave a snort of laughter.

  "At least you don't make any pretense of it," she said. "I thought you might spout some romantic nonsense about her sky-blue eyes and her rose-petal lips, or some other such bilge."

  "Oh, I see more to her than her eyes and lips," Psyche's hired fiancé assured them both, his gaze deliberately dropping to her high neckline and the well-covered curves of her breasts beneath the pale blue silk of her gown.

  Psyche blushed and tried to pinch his arm again, but his biceps were too firm; she knew he felt little pain, already prepared for her assault. Whoever this actor was, he learned quickly.

  Aunt Sophie snorted again. "You might just do," she said, her tone surprisingly mild. "You might just do, Lord Tarrington."

  Psyche, still seething with anger over this man's outrageous conduct, stared at her aunt in surprise.

  It was going to work, against all the odds! She sighed in relief, remembering the desperate moment when she had come up with this far-fetched scheme.

  It was because Cousin Percival had been even more clinging these past weeks since the season had begun, dogging her every move. If she attended a party or a ball, he was there at her elbow. If she rode into the countryside for an al fresco o
uting, he was there, puffing along on a staid nag and urging the plodder unmercifully as he tried to stay the same course as his more adventurous cousin.

  He glowered at other potential suitors and often grabbed her arm, despite her not so subtle attempts to shake him off, when any other eligible bachelor seemed too keen in appreciation of her beauty or too persistent in attendance. And his constant presence was taking its toll. The circle of admirers around her was thinning, and she knew that with every year, it would shrink even more.

  It was not hard for Percy to make himself her shadow, despite all her attempts to discourage him. Of course he would receive invitations to the same social events–her father's family were of impeccable lineage, though mostly endowed with modest wealth. Only her scholarly father, with his penchant for strange experiments and new inventions, had managed to build up a large fortune, safely invested since the accident in government funds. It was a fortune that Uncle Wilfred had coveted even before the death of his brother, and now Wilfred and his insufferable twit of a son thought the answer to their greed lay easily within their grasp. All that was necessary was for Psyche to agree to marry her first cousin.

  And that, despite an increasing desire for financial independence, she could not bring herself to do. When Percy took her hand, when she felt the limp, damp clasp of his fingers around her own, Psyche wanted only to push him away. She had never kissed him, but one glance at Percy's moist pink lips made her stomach turn at the very thought.

  Even the emancipation marriage would bring from her father's too-strict will, which had firmly wrapped up her inheritance in trust till she was safely affianced, could not alter her distaste for her cousin.

  And when, a fortnight ago, he had backed her into a prickly holly bush in the Countess of Shrewsbury's garden, while music and the glow of many candles had flowed out from the ballroom windows just behind them, she had been driven to desperate measures.

  "Please, Cousin," Percy had begged, trying to take her hand. "You know how I feel–"

  "And you know how I feel, Percy, we've been through this a hundred times. I cannot marry you. I have no affection for you, not in that way," she'd answered him firmly, pulling her hand away.

  But with a fortune the size of Psyche's only a marriage vow from his grasp, Percy could be incredibly persistent. "Oh, come now, Cousin, I know your maidenly hesitation is only proper, but it's time for you to listen to my avowal of affection. You're becoming an acknowledged spinster. You're five and twenty; this is–what?–your seventh season. Better to accept my suit, or–fortune or not–you'll soon be at your last prayer."

  "Percy, I am not at death's door just yet. And I am not being proper!"

  "Of course you are," he argued. "You're always proper, unlike your mother, who–"

  He must have seen the anger flare in her eyes, because Percival hastily altered the words he'd been about to say. "That is, I have every respect for your mother, but to go gadding about the countryside in that way, urging such shocking opinions upon decent women–"

  "Percy, you were speaking about me," Psyche had been forced to remind him, only to regret her words even as he reached once more for her hand. She tried to move aside, edging away from the sharp-edged leaves which pulled at the fine silk of her gown, only–her attention on her cousin–to hit the edge of a stone bench. The pain of the impact caused her knees to buckle, and she sat abruptly. Percy seized his chance.

  "That's right, about us. Dear, dear Psyche, you must allow me to profess my undying love." To her horror, he knelt upon the damp grass, still holding tightly to her hand.

  "Get up, Percy, at once! You'll make us the talk of the ton," she'd answered sharply. "Anyhow, you're going to ruin your best pantaloons."

  He winced at the thought of the damage he was doing to his formal costume, but refused to rise. "I don't care if people talk," he told her, his tone smug. "I want everyone to know how I feel about you."

  Just as they already gossiped that her stingy uncle would never agree to any other suitor, Psyche thought with renewed frustration. What could she do to gain some measure of independence and yet not be tied for life to this milksop of a man? There seemed to be no other choice. What other admirer would approach her when Percy kept guard like a jealous dog over a bone. And yet–

  Marriage with Percy would free her of the confines of the Trust, she told herself, trying to find the willpower to agree. She doubted his lust would last long past the marriage bed, if her own lack of response had anything to do with it. And then she could take proper care of Circe. Except–

  After marriage, her husband would control her income; women had no legal rights, of course. And Percy was just as tight-fisted as his father. No, marriage with her cousin wouldn't work, she told herself in some relief, because her skin crawled at the thought of Percy pressing his body against hers. Even the grip of his hand made her uneasy. She tried again to pull away.

  "Percy, I cannot marry you!"

  "Why not?" He leaned closer, his lips pursed. Heavens, he was going to kiss her!

  "Because I am already engaged!" she snapped, then stopped, almost as aghast as her cousin, whose eyes bugged out for a moment like a startled toad's. He released his grip on her hand and struggled to his feet.

  "What do you mean, engaged? To whom? I don't believe it!"

  "To the Marquis of Cara–of Tara–of Tarrington," Psyche announced in desperation. "I met him on the Continent last summer when I went to France with Aunt Sophie and my sister."

  "You said you went to take Circe to see the great museums," Percy argued, his tone indignant, his expression of betrayal almost comical.

  "So we did," she answered. "He's a great art lover, the Marquis."

  "French? You're going to marry a damned Frenchman?" Her cousin couldn't seem to grasp the news. "It's impossible; my father will never allow it."

  "He's English, of course, he only resides on the Continent," Psyche responded, trying to think fast enough to make her spur-of-the-moment story credible. "And when Uncle Wilfred meets the Marquis, I'm sure he will think him a suitable candidate for my hand."

  "Never! I will speak to my father," Percy said in an ominous tone. "He will forbid it!"

  But Percy had stalked away, leaving Psyche sighing with relief–as well as a glimmer of an idea. The next morning she had sent a hasty note to Mr. Watkins, their family solicitor. He had received her in his dark-paneled office when she arrived, pouring tea into fragile china cups and announcing, "You know I cannot break the trust, my dear Psyche, as much as you wish it. Your father only meant to protect you–"

  "Protect me? Whatever he wished, he has delivered me directly into Percy's damp hands," Psyche retorted. They had had this conversation a dozen times, had combed through the thick pages of convoluted language which made up the trust just as many. "No, I think I have found a loophole!"

  He handed her the cup, then offered a small plate with thin slices of lemon. "What do you mean?" His tone was cautious, but lawyers were certainly familiar with loopholes.

  "Go to page six," she directed, sipping the hot tea, then returning the cup to its saucer and picking up her own much-thumbed copy of the Trust. "Where it says that I will receive half of my inheritance when I become betrothed."

  "Ah, yes." The lawyer flipped to the page she'd mentioned. "Your father wished to be sure you had ample means to buy your bride clothes and prepare for the nuptials to follow, being familiar with his brother's parsimonious–that is–his brother Wilfred's penchant for economy, and–"

  "Yes, but now, go to page eight. My uncle has the right to prevent an unsuitable marriage, but it doesn't say he has the right to forbid an engagement!" Psyche took a deep breath. It had occurred to her last night–a plan brilliant in its simplicity–as she'd tossed and turned, disturbed by Percy's increasing audacity.

  The solicitor adjusted his glasses and reread the ponderous phrases of the document. "Perhaps you could interpret it like that, but–"

  "I don't have to interpret it; that's
what it says!" Psyche argued, pressing her hands together in nervous appeal.

  "Even so, what good would it do to be engaged, dear child, if you could never marry?"

  "I would have control of half of my funds!" she exclaimed, impatient with his slowness. "That's much, much more than Uncle Wilfred allows me now. I could hire proper art instructors for Circe; we could travel. I could do all the things that my uncle will not allow me money for!"

  Freedom, she'd thought, closing her eyes for a moment as the solicitor pondered. It meant freedom from her cousin's close pursuit, freedom from her uncle's dictates.

  "But it's pointless. No suitor would agree to such an arrangement, Psyche," the lawyer had pointed out, "an engagement without a marriage to follow."

  "Oh, I think I know one who would," Psyche argued, knowing that her blue eyes were alight with mischief.

  Mr. Watkins stared at her, his own eyes narrowing behind the spectacles. But after a short silence, he said only, "Take care, my dear girl."

  Psyche had ridden home light with happiness. At last, she had found a way out of her legal cage. Her impromptu declaration to Percy would set her free. She would be engaged forever to this mysterious marquis who had sprang out of her imagination, and no one would be able to tell her, or Circe, what to do.

  It was brilliant . . .

  Except that when Percy had shared her news, her uncle demanded to meet the man who had inspired this sudden, secret engagement. And that had seemed to doom her plan until she thought of hiring someone to play the part. All she needed was a fiancé of respectable appearance for one evening, then the mysterious marquis could disappear across the Channel again, and she would have access to her own money, for good and pressing reasons . . .

  It would all be worth the sleepless nights she had spent as she contemplated the details of her scheme. She'd sent her maid to the theater to find a suitable candidate to act the part, promising him the best part of her quarterly allowance. And Simpson had reported success.